Everything I've Lost
by close.this.casket
Summary: Revisiting his childhood home, Sirius Black reflects on his life.


Everything I've Lost.

So here he was. Back in the hallway of that place he had thought he had left forever at the age of sixteen, the phasmid that had dared to call itself his 'home'. He had always hated it here; even from a very young age he had always savored the trips outside, to his aunt's house or some elderly relative. The fresh air had always seared him, cleansed him, but when he returned it was always with an impending sense of incarceration, a sealing in. The same was true of the summer holidays; he would escape to his friends' houses as soon as he could, but there were always those weeks spent locked away in his room, only coming out to eat and argue with his younger brother. It had often depressed him, but then he was able to escape; not like now, he thought bitterly.

The house was shrouded in darkness; a mourning veil of epic proportions. The portraits on the walls were thick with dust, their occupants lethargic; lazing around the inside of their frames and murmuring languidly to each other. They stopped, however, when they saw him. There were a few seconds of complete and utter silence and then the muttering broke out again, louder and more urgent. Ignoring it, Sirius continued forwards, towards the staircase. He had no real plan of where he was going, just somewhere tranquil where he could think. Not that there was much tranquility in this place.

He became aware of where he was again, and realized his feet had carried him to the drawing room. He looked around disparagingly: his parents had never had very good taste in furnishings. Everything was different to how he remembered it, yet the same. It looked the same, was the same; almost. But everything had a worn-down quality; the edges frayed, the surfaces coated in dust. The silk coverings of the armchairs were stained with unnameable substances, their once exotic colors muted by the years that had passed. So much time, so many differences.

It was then, as he surveyed the room, that he noticed an yellowed corner of crumpled paper sticking out from beneath the cushion of a chair. Crossing to it, he pulled experimentally on the edge, but it did not move. Slipping his fingers down the crack between the wooden sideboard of the chair and the faded cushion, he seized hold of it lower down and pulled. This time it came free. It had been wedged down the side, almost as if someone had purposefully placed it there, deliberately hiding it from prying eyes. Smoothing it out, he discovered that it was the front page of the Daily Prophet, yet it was almost fifteen years old. Frowning, he unfolded the rest of the page from underneath it. And then he froze.

Because what faced him was not what he had been expecting. Not his own face, with details of his arrest and imprisonment in Azkaban. Not a relatively innocent story on cauldron fraud. Nothing like that. No, something far worse. He had to read the headline three times before he could comprehend what it was telling him, and when he finally did his throat closed up and his eyes began to burn.

_MINISTRY AUROR OPAL STUART DIES AFTER ATTACK_

Once he was sure he would not be sick, he began to read the article. Every word filled him with grief, every word sapped him of the will to live:

_Early yesterday evening the Ministry lost one of it's best and most respected Aurors. Opal Stuart, 22, was found unconscious in an alley in a Birmingham suburb suffering from severe curse wounds. Although she was immediately transported to St Mungos and put under the care of the best Healers available, she never regained consciousness and passed away at around 11pm that night. _

This could not be true. It could not be true because Opal simply could _not _be dead. Because that wasn't right, was it? That wasn't the way things worked. But even so, even so, he knew it was right. He had known long ago, though he had managed to convince himself that it was not true, that she was still alive somewhere.

Sirius could not bear to read the rest and instead noticed the small photograph right at the bottom. He had passed over it in his first, cursory glance over the newspaper, and now he looked upon it for the first time. It was a picture, he realized, that he recognized; a copy of it had rested on the mantelpiece in their bedroom, balanced precariously on the ornate edge. It must've been taken in the winter; in the background snow drifted lazily past the window, big flakes, settling on the window sill. They both looked no older than nineteen, and they were happy, laughing. Sirius stood behind Opal, his arms around her shoulders, her upper chest. She was smiling, that sweet, almost shy smile that he loved so much. As he studied the photograph, his younger self lowered his mouth to the pale skin of Opal's neck and placed two tender kisses upon it. She laughed, throwing back her head, her chocolate-colored hair cascading down onto his shoulders and chest.

Everything had changed so much since then, even before he had been imprisoned. It was strange, he thought, how a single sentence could change the course of your life forever. But it could, and it had changed his. It had been about two months before Peter had betrayed Lily and James. He could remember that morning so clearly that when he closed his eyes he could almost be back there, in their flat, the window in the kitchen open and the fresh scent of morning all around. He could recall her exact expression, her exact clothing. Not that there was much to recall about her clothing; she always wore the same thing in bed, a white cotton shirt that was far too big and Sirius was sure had belonged to him at some point. Then, she had sat beside him, touched his hands and told him. His eyes had searched her face, her eyes, afraid yet optimistic and he had realized that it was true; that she really was pregnant, that he really would become a father. It hadn't been planned, nor was it really an accident; they had discussed having children, of course they had, but neither of them had expected it to happen so soon, or at such a time.

He had noticed the change in her. Opal glowed with health; her hair was thicker, glossier, she was no longer dangerously thin and her skin shone with a vitality that most women would kill for. A serene contentment radiated from her; it was infectious too, he soon found himself happier than he had been in months. Even complete strangers noticed their unspoken complacency and were quick to comment upon it. Life would have been perfect were it not for the constant threat Voldemort was posing. More and more people were disappearing, everyday there would be a new story in the Prophet about a family found murdered, or deaths under suspicious circumstances. It troubled him to think that Opal was at the very heart of this; some days she would come in as late as she used to, crawl into bed beside him, and, once she thought he was asleep, cry. The first night this had happened he had comforted her, holding her as she sobbed into his skin and promising her that he would always be there, always look after her. After a while her keening had stopped and she had lain quiet, clinging onto him as though she were drowning. The next time it had happened he had held her, but found there was no need, nor reason, to speak.

Despite all this, Sirius had still believed that Opal would make a brilliant mother. She had never been very maternal, unlike Lily. Lily was more gentle, more patient, and had that air of caring around her that made her such a good mother. Opal was not like that. Sirius would never describe her as caring; although she did care about people close to her, she did not care so much for people she did not know. But it was himself he was more worried about. He knew that he was reckless and could be irresponsible, and before those things had never bothered him, but now they did. He didn't feel like he deserved it, didn't feel worthy of having everything he did. Opal seemed to sense that something was wrong, even when he'd tried to pass it off as just feeling ill. He remember her words, her closeness; how she'd managed to pry the truth from him. How he'd told her that he wasn't sure if he could be a father, if he could keep her safe.

Then, with a sudden, blinding shock, he remembered his own words:

_"If my mother finds out that you're pregnant, then I don't know what she'll do. I don't mind them knowing, but it's what they _might_ do. I wouldn't put anything past her. She believes the purity of the family line is the most important thing; she'll go to any lengths to achieve it. And I don't want you hurt." _He realized his words had come true; that was why the newspaper was here. Opal had been killed on his mother's orders because she was pregnant with his child. A dizzying blackness opened up in front of him, he wanted to fall into it more than anything else in the world, yet he resisted and eventually it passed, leaving him cold and drained, clinging to the back of the chair for support.

So this was what he'd done. If it wasn't for him Opal wouldn't be dead. If only she had never become pregnant. If only... Sirius felt sick to his very core, he wanted to scream and rage and make himself hurt for what he'd done to her, but he couldn't. He couldn't move.

He was overcome with guilt; if he had not gone after Peter than perhaps none of this would have happened. Maybe Peter would be in Azkaban and he and Opal and their child would be a family. But no. No. His pride would not have allowed him to do that. The memory of that night, turning up at Godric's Hollow to find James and Lily's house in ruins, still burned.

His own nobility, his own loyalty, had led to the loss of everything he'd ever loved. All he had left was _this_. This decaying grandeur and his memories.

His memories were the only thing that kept him alive.


End file.
